Meant to Live
by Robbie Colfax
Summary: Draco Malfoy reflects upon his life in the summer of 1996. Something doesn't add up.


**Author's Notes:** Well, I've been ridiculously busy as of late, and Election Day has taken a backseat. Thank you to all who reviewed that work, and I assure you, more will be up shortly. This is a piece that had been picking at my brain since I first saw the video for the song. I hope you like it, and please realize this is my first stab at anything concerning Draco Malfoy. :) If you read it, even if you hate it, I'd love a review.  
  
**Disclaimer:** The characters, and anything magical and Harry Potter-esque belong to the exquisite J.K. Rowling. Anything else you like is probably stolen from someone. The other crap, well, it is mine, and you can't have it. Enjoy!  
  
_Fumbling his confidence and wondering why the world has passed him by.  
_  
Your genes are a funny thing when you think about it. I used to be so proud of mine. Proud isn't the correct word. Arrogant, egotistical, imperial, pretentious. Even a thesaurus could run short on adjectives. I was a Malfoy. To be a Malfoy, was to be the best. When you wanted something, you didn't just get it. You got it served to you before you asked for it. Your servants thanked you for being allowed to serve you; being allowed to be graced by your presence.  
  
Then, my father tarnished my name.  
  
He was caught in June. It's not the fact of why he was there that enrages me. It's the fact that he was there as a servant. My father, the patriarch of the Malfoy family, a mere foot soldier. I used to think the man was better than that. Not only was he doing servant work, but he failed at it. In a matter of minutes he went from one of the Wizarding World's elite members, to a common street thug.  
  
_Hoping that he's meant for more than arguments and failed attempts to fly._  
  
Quidditch. When my dad looks at me, he doesn't see a dutiful prince, eager to take the throne. He sees a failed Quidditch player. It's ridiculous. Because I can't beat Harry Potter on a broomstick, I'll never be better than him. Harry Potter has many faults, don't get me wrong. I won't be joining his bandwagon. But regardless of my Slytherin upbringing, one thing is completely clear: Harry Potter is a damn good flier. What the hell do I need Quidditch skills for? I'm not going to be some washed-up middle-aged man with a receding hairline, bothering the local drunks about when 'he was once a star'.  
  
_We were meant to live for so much more. Have we lost ourselves?_  
  
I found something out recently, digging through the records, as I do so freely when insomnia takes over. I'm finding a lot of holes in the things my father has subscribed us to. When the Dark Lord....when Voldemort fell the first time, my father, again charading as a civil servant, took it upon himself to retrieve all his paraphernalia. Voldemort, was known once as Tom Marvolo Riddle. Besides the uninspiring nature of his name, he wanted to surely hide one other fact: He's a filthy Half-blood! You heard me right, a bunch of arrogant wizards, cocksure that they are purifying the world, being puppeted by an unworthy. It's disgusting to think about.  
  
When you realize something of that magnitude, you start to inventory your choices. And I'm angry. I'm enraged. The stuff I've said and done in that man's name, following that man's...no, that animal's creed, and he doesn't fit the bill. Something just isn't right. And nobody cares. They are too wrapped up in their own campaign to see the ludicrous nature of their crimes. I'm disgusted. And I want out.  
  
_Somewhere we live inside_  
  
Not to turn the point, but I feel it relevant to bring my mother up. Her mention shall be sort, very similar to the role she played in my life. She's a cheerleader. A trophy wife. I know she came from the Black family, which produced such a strong, although completely irresponsible, woman such as Aunt Bellatrix. Apparently, my mother is proof that blood matters none. It is quite a blessing we could afford house-elves, because under my mother's supervision, the house would crumble completely.  
  
Sons and mothers traditionally have a strong bond. I missed out on that. When I would go to her to get advice, to vent my frustrations on life, feelings, you know what she'd done? Tell Lucius. Lucius would then proceed to belittle me until I snapped out of it. 'Do not cloud your mind with the emotions of peasants, boy! Stand tall, be proud.' Evidently, my father's dictionary defines 'pride' as bowing and doing what your told, and how to do it.  
  
I always have been an only child. Being an orphan couldn't be that hard.

_Dreaming about providence and whether mice or men have second tries_  
  
Lucius came home from his short two-day stint in jail. Apparently, our Ministry has decided that setting a fine on a wealthy open-and-shut case is justice. I expected a little acquiescence from the man. I was wrong. I might be going out on a limb here, but when you live with a man, and I use that term quite loosely, like Lucius Malfoy for sixteen years, you get a good read on him. It was evident he had faced some of the Dark Lord's wrath. He came straight into my bedroom, looked me straight in the eye, and in his frigid intonation, ordered the following:  
  
'Draco, I expect you ready in one week. The Dark Lord is ready for your service. You are to wear the mark.'  
  
That's how it was to happen. I was to give up my life, my future, my possible good name, as a negotiating ploy from a servant. I wanted to protest, it'd only be futile. I wanted to lunge at the man, hoping that his weakened state would make him prey, but I know if he didn't get me, his servants would.  
  
_Maybe we've been livin' with our eyes half open, maybe we're bent and broken._  
  
I will not be used like that. While my father might have been working overtime to tarnish the reputation of our name, he will not tarnish me. I know who I am. I have a backbone, I am intelligent. Anywhere I go, I could make a name for myself.  
  
_We want more than this world's got to offer, We want more than this world's got to offer.  
_  
Whether or not that name is Draco Malfoy, is of little relevance.  
  
_We want more than the wars of our fathers_  
  
I'm sick of his rhetoric. I'm sick of looking around decent people, people better than my father, and believing that I am their superior. I'm sick of taking predisposed orders from someone who I am supposedly better than. I'm sick of being Draco Malfoy.  
  
I've taken the liberty of procuring some of my father's funds. I'll call it an advance on my trust. Future Christmas and birthday presents that he wouldn't have paid anyways. I was able to find a gentleman to make me false identification. My hair is now an odd chestnut color; My eyes, a rather dashing shade of blue.  
  
I've almost cut myself completely off of magic. I'm almost done. There's only one thing left.  
  
_And everything inside screams for second life._  
  
_'Obliviate Totalus'_


End file.
